


i went to the pictures tomorrow

by asynchrony



Series: tender mercy [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Boys In Love, Childhood Trauma, Coming Out, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, and possibly, everything i write is about found family and idc if it's romo or not tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asynchrony/pseuds/asynchrony
Summary: in which Kyoutani has had a terrible, terrible past, and is beginning to dare to hope for a better future.
Relationships: Kyoutani Kentarou & Watari Shinji, Kyoutani Kentarou & Watari Shinji & Yahaba Shigeru, Kyoutani Kentarou & Yahaba Shigeru, Kyoutani Kentarou/Watari Shinji/Yahaba Shigeru, Kyoutani Kentarou/Yahaba Shigeru
Series: tender mercy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998919
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	i went to the pictures tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sequel to _[back to back, they faced each other](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282167)_ , which is from yahaba's perspective, trying to puzzle kyoutani out. there are no descriptions of past trauma in that one, and it stands alone well if you'd like a self-contained recovery fic.
> 
> warnings: this contains flashbacks and nightmares that can be read as child-on-child sexual assault, under adult coercion; the details are vivid but not gratuitous or explicit. 
> 
> please do read with care. these boys are doing their best to look after themselves, and this is a story about that.

_after one long season of waiting,  
after one long season of wanting,  
i am breaking open.  
my insides are pink and raw.  
and it hurts me when i move my jaw,  
but i am taking tiny steps forward._

  


"So you _did_ text Towada, then? How did that go?" Yahaba asks when they're sorting out some team paperwork after school.

Kentarou nods. "It's okay. We had a really gross conversation, but we're all good now."

Gross is kinda an understatement. But that's how all these things have always felt to Kentarou, a bit like popping one of those really, really big zits that you really shouldn't pop because they get blood all over the bathroom mirror and make you all teary for hours, and then they leave a nasty scar. Disgusting, but you feel like you gotta do it anyway.

Except that he really could have just left Towada alone. It'd been years and years since they were thrown together by supremely shit luck and left to fend for themselves, and Towada seemed super well adjusted all things considered without needing to have a Deep Meaningful Conversation about sharing an experience so rare and fucked up that he’s still not convinced he didn’t somehow make it up. Like he's the fucking captain of his own team, and all that. He probably skips class less than Kentarou does, even if he apparently gets into way more actual fights.

Kentarou's never been good at leaving things alone. He's kinda glad about it, this time.

"Towada gave me some good advice, actually. About the, y'know, dealing with shit."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Obviously his shit's different, but. He and his boyfriend worked some stuff out for how Akki can help if he's freaked out in ways that are scary."

"I didn't know he had a boyfriend." No shit.

"He's dating the ex-captain of his team. It'd be like you dating Oikawa."

Yahaba looks more grossed out by this than anything Kentarou's done, which is pretty great. Then his face smooths out into the annoying Thinking Face he's stolen from Oikawa, which means some absolute bullshit is about to leave his mouth.

"Does it bother you — I mean, are you..."

"Gay?" Fucking hell. You get tortured by some perverts as a kid and suddenly everyone thinks you're gay. Not that they're wrong, and not like that's a thought Kentarou feels good about having. "Yeah."

"Okay," Yahaba says.

"You asked," Kentarou cuts in, "so you don't get to do the whole 'thank you for telling me' thing."

"Fair enough." To his credit, Yahaba looks at least a little sorry. "What were you saying about Towada and... Akki, was it?"

"Yep. He said he could get Akimiya to write down some things he found useful that you guys can try. Like, for shed days." It's been nice having a discreet way to refer to his bad days, and nicer still having two shockingly chill teammates willing to help him manage his fucked up brain.

Which Kentarou supposes couldn't have happened if he hadn't trusted them enough to show them the shed in the first place. Go him, popping zits. Communication or some shit.

"That would be really good, actually." Yahaba looks like he's actually thinking, which mostly means he looks constipated.

"How's he doing, though?"

Kentarou shrugs. "Getting into fights. Whining about missing his hot college boyfriend. Seems to think his team can beat us, but I'm not so sure."

Now they're back on comfortable territory. "We'll see," Yahaba says, baring his teeth in what he probably thinks is a smile.

* * *

Kentarou likes Watari. Whoever the fuck is driving the sixteen-wheeler that is his brain doesn't seem to like Watari. Sucks to be them (sucks to be him, also, but that's beside the point).

"Ken-kun," Watari says in that careful, steady way he's learnt to, when things are like this. "Do you know where you are?"

Kentarou presses himself further into the corner of the shed, feeling the plastic creak at his back. He can feel the pressure in his eyes where they're wide and vigilant, his breath sprinting away from him like a rabbit he'll never catch. He's deep underwater, in the way where he can still see what's going on, but the person who's got his voice isn't him.

"We're at school. High school. You're seventeen, and you're the ace of our volleyball team. The Spring High is coming up, and we're working really hard on getting ready."

Fuck this. Maybe the books Akimiya read meant this shit to be reassuring, but it's mostly infuriating enough to be told his own life story that he starts swimming. Up, up, toward the—

—loud and overwhelming world of actually having skin and shit. There he is. He's nearly there.

Kentarou tests his jaw a little, like he always does. "It's still fucking weird that you call me that."

Watari smiles at him, slow and easy. "Welcome back. It works better sometimes, when you're like... young?"

Ugh. He doesn't remember those ones, and he's glad he doesn't. From what Yahaba's said, it's pretty freaky to deal with.

"As long as Yahaba doesn't yell 'Ken-kun' in a match, I'll be happy."

"I like that you trust that I won't." Watari tosses him a bottle of water, and Kentarou catches it. Not bad, reflexes coming back.

"Feeling up to class? It's in ten minutes."

"Ugh."

Watari surveys him carefully. "Tell you what," he says. "I've been saving this one. You know that bathroom on the third floor with the weird sink setup?"

"...I guess?"

"The cubicle at the end has hinges that lock you in if someone bumps them a specific way. Don't ask me how I know. How do you feel about skipping English by getting stuck?"

"You want to lock me in a toilet stall." Kyoutani misses the days when he thought he knew Watari well.

"Well, it doesn't have to be you! I could be stuck, and if we get called to explain ourselves, you can say I was too embarrassed to let you go get other help."

He can feel his eyebrows rising into his hairline. "I didn't know public humiliation was your thing."

Watari grins, unabashed. "It's not. But you're a good friend, right? You'd be all embarrassed on my behalf, tell Evans-sensei in private, and his opinion of you would skyrocket after seeing you be such a compassionate, sensitive friend."

"Man, what the hell." Though... "Sure, why not."

* * *

There are hands in his hair. There are hands in the hair that he doesn't have any more, knuckles a painful grip through his curls, tugging at the roots. There are hands burning a two-fingered stripe all the way around his head in a parody of intimacy, charring it into what is otherwise now blonde blonde blonde they don't have you they don't have you they have you they'll always have you—

"Shit," someone says, distant, and he hears them complete, "You're made for this."

Faintly, he can feel the throb of his knees against something too organic to be the grit of the bus floor. Goes limp, anyway, lowers himself to trembling elbows and knees then down, down, down, into a curled-up mass on the ground. He waits. He'll be good. He is good. He's trying to be good.

There are hands in his hair. There is another, a hesitant touch to his shoulder. Maybe one of the other kids. He doesn't know. Maybe made to join in. He raises his head blearily, eyes wet and unseeing, pulls his mouth into an imperfect facsimile of a smile.

"It's okay," he manages through his swollen tongue and throat. "Do what you gotta do. Don't worry about me."

The hand disappears. It was warm, warmer than the others. Those have gone too, now that he thinks about it. He waits for footsteps, a nudge into position, a blow to the stomach, a cue. Listens, as much as he can. He'll be good. He'll be good this time, he promises.

Muffled crying, through a thousand walls. "You _are_ good," someone is saying. They sound young, upset.

Poor kid. Kentarou's coming back to himself a bit, he thinks. He uncurls a little, reaches a hand out for the knee he knows is nearby. Its owner flinches a little, then settles into his touch.

Kentarou pats the knee gently. He can't tell if it's him who's shaking or the other kid, but the tremor steadies a little with each stroke.

"It's okay," he says again. "What did they want you to do?" His stomach plummets when there's no response. "Did they give you a knife or something?"

Still no answer, and no orders for either of them. Kentarou struggles back up to kneeling. His thighs are alight with pain, but he shuffles a little closer to the other kid, who's a blur of pale hair and skin and the sound of tears. He doesn't look like he's hurt bad.

It must be hunger that's making his head spin, but he can force through it. "Hey. It's better me than you." He reaches for the kid's hand, miraculously receives it. Curls his fingers one by one around the warm palm and feels them return the favor. They sit there, for a minute or an hour, mutual distress and small comfort.

* * *

True to his word, Watari walks Kentarou through the process of jiggling the hinges so they stop moving. From this angle, Kentarou can't see him any more, where he's sitting cross-legged on the lid of the toilet seat, but he seems as relaxed as ever.

"That's it, right?"

Watari hops down from his throne and tests the door gently, then with his entire weight.

"Yeah, you got it. Well and truly stuck."

"Cool." Kentarou settles himself on the bench, bag in the nearest sink. "So. What now?"

"We talk, I guess."

Kentarou snorts. "What about? Isn't the whole reason we're here that I'm still a little bit not-here? I don't wanna talk about that."

Watari taps his foot against the floor, a steady rhythm. "Would it help if you did, though?"

"I don't think so. I don't— it's _gross_. I don't want to upset anyone. Or myself," he adds as an afterthought.

"That makes sense." A bit of shuffling, the sound of a zip. "Gum?"

Watari's extended his arm over the top of the stall door, pack in hand.

"Sure."

* * *

When the world comes back to him, Kentarou is dry-eyed. Gritty, even. He rubs at his face with his unoccupied hand and finds dirt and grass under his nails. Yahaba's face is fleshy with the slick pink of recent tears, and Kentarou is suddenly very aware of the fragments that are filtering back.

"Fucking hell. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" He moves to let go of Yahaba's hand, but Yahaba shakes his head silently, grips tighter.

Okay. Kentarou shuffles a little closer still, presses them to each other in one line of warmth from shoulder to hip. Yahaba, perhaps despite himself, leans in.

"I'm back," Kentarou murmurs. Gentle like a bedtime story. "It's me again. It's just me. We're safe."

Yahaba sniffles, an ugly sound. "You sound like Watari," he says.

Kentarou strokes his thumb over the back of Yahaba's hand. This close, he can tell that both of them are still trembling, the last aftershocks of an afternoon poorly spent. He breathes, deliberate and deep, lets his shoulders and belly move with it.

"What the fuck is your damage," Yahaba says eventually. "That was a rhetorical question. Sorry. I just."

"It's a lot, huh."

"I was so fucking scared." Ah, there he is. Anger's working its way back through his voice, in the flex of his grip on Kentarou's hand. "You were looking at me. I can deal when you're looking through me, or you're scared of me, or whatever, but what the hell was that."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Kentarou says, and Yahaba deflates.

"You didn't— Well. I know you didn't mean to. If this is the kind of stuff Towada meant when he talked like you were saving him..."

Kentarou owes him this much, he supposes. "Not him specifically, but this kinda thing, yeah. Sometimes, anyway."

Yahaba shudders. Kentarou smooths his thumb over Yahaba's knuckles again, some small reassurance.

"You were so _young_ ," Yahaba breathes. "However many of you there were. You were all so fucking young."

Kentarou thinks about Watari, earlier. "Would it be less bad? If you knew for sure."

"What?"

"If I told you how many of us there were. No details, unless you want them, and I can't promise I'll wanna share anyway."

Yahaba pulls away just a little, then, turning so he can face him. He's got his thinking face on again, even if it's a little wobbly. "I think so," he says slowly. "I mean. It sucks, but I think it'll suck less knowing."

Kentarou can't help but chuckle, quick and sharp. "It did suck. Go on then, ask me." For some reason he can't volunteer the information on his own, feels like he'll need a direct question to set his tongue free.

Yahaba seems to understand. "How many of you were there? And... if it's okay, were you all around the same age?"

It works, though it still feels gross to answer. "There were seven of us," Kentarou says. "Towada and I were eleven. The youngest was probably... nine, I think."

"Okay." Yahaba flicks his eyes up to meet Kentarou's, a ghost of a smile. "Do I get to say 'thank you for telling me' this time?"

"Not while we're still holding hands, you fucking sap."

* * *

  


_and i feel sure that my wounds will heal.  
and i will bloom here in my room.  
with a little water.  
and a little bit of sunlight.  
and a little bit of tender mercy,  
tender  
mercy._

  


The problem is that once that zit's been popped, it keeps growing more fucking layers. Yahaba and Watari have been asking more questions, here and there; Towada's assured him that he didn't need to worry about him when sharing things, since it's not like Akimiya doesn't technically know a lot about Kentarou just by knowing a lot about Towada.

He wants to answer, is the thing, and sometimes it feels fucking good having less kept to just himself. But the problem with the zits that go really fucking deep is they hurt worse with each go, and also something still feels ugly and wrong and gross about smearing metaphorical pus on his friends.

Gross. He should probably stop using that analogy, except that it still feels true: every last detail he hasn't shared is popping up in his head, even the ones he'd forgotten, and under all the cysts he feels too fundamentally ugly to be seen.

It's not like they're asking much, really. Watari is clearly just trying to help.

"So like… touch in any way that might make you feel restrained is bad I guess? And more generally on your back, just from pattern recognition. Does that sound right?"

Kentarou grunts. "Head, neck, shoulders, back." He catalogs the rest of his body for a moment, just to figure it out, and is swept right back into another memory he didn't know he had. He's in somebody's lap, here, their hands broad on his chest, the roll of their hips viscous and nauseating. The scene flickers, and he's flat on his back, a palm heavy on his sternum pinning him down, the sound of a zip a little further away. Instinctively, the taste of begging rises to the tip of his tongue.

He blinks all of this back behind his eyelids, swallows the _please_ threatening to emerge. "You know what," he says. "Fuck off. Just don't touch me. Leave me alone."

He gets up in a sudden movement, sending Watari's spare bento box clattering to the ground. He desperately needs to be alone, right now, away from people who might ask if he wants to fucking talk about it.

"Don't follow me," he shoots behind him, and flees.

* * *

Kentarou wakes slow and disoriented, the way he always does when his dreams are white-walled and vaguely bus-shaped. His limbs take a while to come back to him, his spine a coil of pain radiating up to the back of his neck, where the force of keeping his jaw clenched and his noises swallowed has destroyed his muscles’ structural integrity.

It never stops surprising him, the infinite ways that they’re still ruining the sanctity of his body from so many years ago. Once he’s regained control of his fingers, he’s scrabbling at the blankets, kicking free of the nest that’s become a cage. He’s hard, painfully so.

Fuck. That happens sometimes. It never gets any less gross, but what he’s shaken by is the vivid, unprecedented texture of this particular nightmare. This hasn’t happened before: pale skin and pale hair under him, arms twisted behind a familiar back where he’s been told to hold them still, struggling turning to pliant sobs. A smaller, darker boy being told to take his place when he’s shaking too hard to obey. This hasn’t happened before: two boys, sharp-eyed and watchful like they are in the waking world, mouths and wrists bruised like they aren’t, seeing him writhe under the blinding burn of a cigarette to the inner thigh because they’ve been told he’ll be hurt worse if they look away.

Kentarou barely makes it to his knees in front of the toilet before he’s throwing up nothing at all. Isn’t that apt. He’s made such an immense effort to let things out in a way that’s careful and tidy and not-disgusting, and it hasn’t made him suffer any less. It’s just brought others into the mess.

The uncontrollable retching peters out eventually, but the horror that accompanies it doesn't. Empty and worn out, he lets himself go limp on the cool tile and not exist for a while.

* * *

Kentarou avoids Watari and Yahaba as much as he can, for as long as he can. This doesn't work very well, given he's still kind of the vice captain and the Spring Tournament qualifiers are rapidly approaching. Everyone knows something's off. The non-starter second-years seem to be telling all the first-years that this is just how he is, that he gets mad and disappears to fuck knows where sometimes.

Which pisses him off, but he can't exactly say it's not true. It's not like he's a better person now. He's made proper friends for the first time in — well, maybe ever, and for months and months he's dragged them into covering for him in class. And worse, and much worse. But he's in too deep now to disappear like he did before, so he keeps showing up to practice, keeps trying to play well while never looking anyone in the eye for too long.

It's fine when it's Watari, who's behind him on the court anyway and knows how not to tempt fate, but it's a little bit harder when it's his captain and his fucking setter. Yahaba knows well enough now that this is something to keep out of the club, though, so he makes himself hard to find.

How strange it is, to be avoiding someone and to trust them to respect it, at least to an extent.

Kentarou says as much, when Yahaba finally finds him. He's on the roof of one of the smaller buildings, one where you can reach out one of the clubroom windows and hoist yourself up. It looks like Yahaba'd spotted him and outright climbed the drainpipe from the ground floor, satchel still hanging from his shoulder.

Yahaba's still catching his breath, but he laughs. "Of course I wasn't going to bring it up at practice. I figured I had to... earn it, I guess? It felt like cheating."

Kentarou snorts. "Typical."

"It is, isn't it," Watari muses, pulling himself over the edge in the same way Kentarou had. "He's always got to take the hard way out." He nods at Kentarou. "Yahaba got tired of you nearly missing his sets today, so here we are."

"So it _is_ about volleyball, then."

"Well— no it's fucking not, actually! We're friends, aren't we? Haven't we been over this? I'm sorry about the... asking too many questions or whatever it was that we did, but—"

"Yahaba," Watari says mildly. "Chill."

Yahaba sighs. "Sorry. I just mean. There's been worse shit, and we've been fine."

"There hasn't," Kentarou says.

"How do you mean?" Watari's pulled his knees up, arms wrapped around them. For a moment, he looks very small. Kentarou has to swallow hard, drive the thought away.

"There hasn't been worse shit. Not for me, anyway. It's been... bad."

That, of all things, shuts Yahaba up.

"Huh. Wow." Watari shifts a little, head tilted in what Kentarou knows as his "I'm listening" pose. He's not going to take the bait.

… fuck it, maybe he will. "You two have been showing up in my nightmares and shit. You can imagine pretty much how." That last part is directed at Yahaba, who grimaces.

"Ah," he says. "I'm sorry. I've been thinking about that, y'know, how fucked it was to make you comfort me."

"You didn't make me do anything. I kinda forced the whole thing on you, I don’t blame you for being upset." Kentarou turns away, looks across the dots of white-blazered students below. "This is why I should've just stayed alone."

“For what it’s worth,” Watari says, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

* * *

All this talking is exhausting. Kentarou's starting to wonder if these will be transferable skills if he does end up in business somewhere, contracts and negotiations and all that.

It's not long before they've worked things out, during another lunch break where the rain beats heavy on the corrugated plastic around them. The shed on the roof's the most private place they can find, especially when the weather's like this.

Yahaba insists on printing the "plan" into Kentarou's notebook in his mostly-tidy, blocky writing.

  1. Go to Nationals
  2. Ask if it's okay before bringing Things up
  3. Win



It's... a very Yahaba summary. There's a lot of things that are out of any of their hands, but they're all in agreement that they don't want this to affect how they play. There's not much to be done other than tread carefully.

"I still don't think that needed to be written down, and not in my notebook," Kentarou says.

Watari's quiet for a moment. "Actually, I've got one more." He leans over Yahaba to scrawl "and before touch, if needed" at the end of point two.

"You're a hypocrite," Yahaba says. "You're practically in my lap right now."

"I mean, if you want me to ask before ever touching you, I can."

"It's... a good ground rule, I guess," Kentarou concedes. "At least if you don't know where my head's at." He kind of hates it. Hates feeling so delicate and volatile and everything he's never and always been called, every reason he's never had friends. He wants to be able to touch and be touched in turn, possibly a little more than he should.

* * *

"For what it's worth," Yahaba says, "I'm also gay."

Watari stares. "Wait, what?"

"Aren't you?"

"I mean, I don't know, _maybe_ , but we were having a moment about friendship and being glad to have each other. Or at least I thought that was what was happening."

Yahaba shrugs. "Yeah, we're friends, I don't regret any of that, this year has been way more fun than I thought it was gonna be, and also I figured out I was gay, I guess. Isn't coming out also a moment about friendship and trusting each other or whatever?"

"Hold up," Kentarou says, still catching up. "Are we all gay? Is that what you're saying right now. Are we the gayest volleyball club in Miyagi."

"Possibly not," Yahaba muses. "Have you seen the amount of sexual tension Karasuno has? Also Shiratorizawa literally live together."

"I'm just going to eat my lunch, then," Watari sighs.

"Okay," Kentarou says. Then, to Yahaba, as solemnly as he can manage, "Thank you for telling us."

Yahaba laughs so hard he nearly knocks his bag off the roof.

* * *

"I can't take full credit for point 2 part B, anyway," Watari says, rolling off Yahaba's lap into the small corner of empty space they've cleared. "It was kind of Kunimi's idea, weirdly enough? He's been telling the first-years that you used to be in some kind of mysterious fight club as a kid and they shouldn't touch you when you don't see them coming."

Yahaba whistles. "That kid is seriously scary."

"Yeah. It freaks me out how sharp he is," Kentarou says, "but that's a real fucking relief."

"You don't mind them thinking that about you?"

Kentarou's laugh is a harsh bark. "I mean, it's not _wrong_ , is it? Almost makes me wonder how much he actually knows."

Watari surveys the little shed for a moment, like he had the very first time Kentarou had let them in. Then, it had been with wonder; now, it's with familiarity. Intimacy, almost, with the space and each other. 

"Probably too much," he says. "But if he hasn't figured out this place exists, we should pass it on after we graduate."

Yahaba groans. "I don't want to think about that yet." He's wearing a particularly soft version of that thinking face of his, though. Looking at him in profile, Kentarou can't take his eyes off the sunlight catching on his eyelashes. "Let's practice, anyway. Can I...?"

"Yeah," Kentarou says, far too quickly. "I'm good with anything right now."

"From either of us?" Watari's looking up at him, considering. He nods.

"Okay," Yahaba says. He eases himself a little closer, shoulders and hips brushing. Places his hand on Kentarou's, where it's resting on his knee; leans his head against his shoulder. After a moment, Watari rolls onto his side, facing them. Rests his head in Kentarou's lap, relaxing when Kentarou nods; puts his hand on top of Yahaba's and squeezes both of theirs.

"We've still got six months," he says, barely audible under the erratic thrum of the rain. His eyes are very brown and very warm.

"Yeah," Kentarou says. In the last six months, he's already changed enough that he hardly recognizes himself. "We do."

  


_and i will go to the house of a friend i know.  
and i will let myself forget.  
with a little water.  
and a little bit of sunlight.  
and a little bit of tender mercy,  
tender  
mercy._

**Author's Note:**

> lyrics throughout from _absolute lithops effect_ by the mountain goats. this fic can be retweeted [here](https://twitter.com/emdashing/status/1325017305382707202).


End file.
